


The Man Next Door

by Kizzywiggle



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), bagginshield - Fandom, thilbo - Fandom
Genre: AU: London, Badly, Bilbo grows a pair, Consent is Sexy, Don't know where this is going, Drunkenness, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hope for the future, Karaoke, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, Rating changed to teen because of the sort-of stalking, Redemption, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, Stalking, There may be feelz ahead, Thorin Apologizes, Thorin is a bit of a stalker, Worse tagging, angry!bilbo, bad analogies, but i digress, i like happy endings, letter writing, look it has an actual tag, made up psychology, made up therapy techniques, more of the comedy dog huzzah, poor decision making, probably not canon at all so sorry, proper apology, realism is for other authors, sort of, the angst just happened I didn't plan it, the dog has wind, there is a dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-22 13:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7440472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzywiggle/pseuds/Kizzywiggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins and his Bulldog, Bofur live in a neat Grade Two listed property in a quiet part of London. </p>
<p>Next door, in a Modern Monstrosity, lives one Thorin Oakenshield.</p>
<p>Written in response to a picture prompt on Twitter, although I can't figure out how to put the picture here...</p>
<p>(this is all off-the-cuff and un-beta'd, so sorry if there's any honking errors.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Bilbo Baggins opened the door and leaned down to pick up his neatly-rolled copy of _The Guardian_ and pint of semi-skimmed milk, breathing deeply of the moist London morning. As he straightened up, his increasingly incredulous gaze passed over broad feet, muscled, hairy thighs, a pair of indecently tight briefs, until he finally came nose-to- _what-the-hell_ -chest of Mr. Oakenshield, his annoying next-door neighbour. Bilbo’s nostrils flared in outraged shock. Underpants! In the street! “Mr. Oakenshield,” he muttered, then backed smartly into his neat little house and slammed the door. He thought he heard “Morning, Bill,” in a deep, Northern voice, but wasn't sure.

_Really, the sheer nerve of the man!_ he fumed, filling the kettle and slamming a mug onto his kitchen counter. Not only had he built The Modern Monstrosity next door to Bilbo’s Grade Two Listed Period Property (and exactly _how_ Oakenshield got planning permission for it was anyone’s guess - Bilbo guessed drug money), but he swanned in and out at all hours, held blaringly loud all-night parties which inevitably resulted in Bilbo having to clean vomit and condoms out of his herbaceous border, _and_ he swanned around in just his underwear! _Outside!_ Why, it was indecent, just because he had a six pack...Something bumped Bilbo's leg, disrupting his little internal rant. “Oh, sorry, Bofur,” he grumbled. “I suppose you’d like feeding, hey? Good boy?” The large English Bulldog beamed and drooled while Bilbo spooned food into his bowl and topped up his water, then he set to with messy glee while Bilbo scratched his ears and sipped his own tea. Once their breakfast was done Bilbo loaded the dishwasher and got dressed before clipping on Bofur’s lead for their daily commute to work.

The tube was packed, and Bofur tucked under Bilbo’s leg, staying out from under people's feet while the train started and stopped, passengers getting on and off until the carriage was nearly empty. Bilbo had been listening to a story on his tablet and was happily in a world of his own when Bofur suddenly stood up and started an enthusiastic, all-over-body wag. “Sit down, boy!” Bilbo yelled, before realising he was shouting and pulling his headphones off. “What’s the matter with you?” His crazy dog was barking and crooning and pulling at his lead, trying to get away from Bilbo. Bilbo looked in the direction Bofur was yanking him and saw Mr. Bloody Oakenshield, of all people, grinning at the pair of them over his newspaper (not _The Guardian_ , Bilbo noted).

“Morning, Bofur,” Oakenshield said in a quiet, deep voice. How are you this morning, lad?” Bofur nearly wagged himself into a heart attack. Rather than have his shoulder dislocated, Bilbo let the lead slacken so his soppy dog could go and properly greet their neighbour. Oakenshield put the paper down and fussed the dog until Bofur collapsed in a happy little heap at the larger man’s feet, drool puddling on the floor of the carriage. Oakenshield looked up at Bilbo and grinned. “He’s a lovely dog, Bill,” he said.

“My. Name. Is. _Bilbo_ ,” Bilbo said stiffly. “Not ‘Bill’!”

“Oh, sorry,” said Oakenshield. “It’s so unusual, i thought I’d heard it wrong. Bilbo, then.” he held out a hand (only slightly covered in Bofur-drool). “I’m Thorin.” (Like that was a ‘usual’ name!)

Not wanting to be rude, Bilbo shook hands. “Well, nice to properly meet you, I suppose.” He tugged on the lead to try and pull Bofur back, but the silly dog had fallen asleep on Oak- on Thorin’s feet. Bilbo heaved an annoyed sigh and moved a couple of seats closer to Thorin. They sat in silence for a moment.

“Did you know he gets into my garden sometimes?” asked Thorin with a broad grin. “He’s turned up at my back door, begging!” He seemed to think it was a great joke. Bilbo cringed, mortified.

“I suppose there must be a hole in the fence,” he said. “I’ll fix it, don’t worry. That must be how your, ahem, _fellow revellers_ keep getting into my garden to be sick…” Thorin’s face fell. “Oh, gods, no, they don’t?” he said. Bilbo nodded grimly. They fell into an embarrassed silence, punctuated by dog snores and Bilbo fidgeting nervously. “I’m off at the next stop,” he said, for want of better conversational topics.

“Me too!” replied Thorin. “What are the chances? Where are you off to?”

“Work.”

“What do you do?”

“Travel agent.”

“That’s interesting - do you enjoy it?”

“I suppose so, yes. Ah, here’s my stop.”

Both men stood, waking the dog, and got off the train before riding the escalator up to the exit. Bilbo turned left and Thorin turned right. “See you later, Bilbo,” called Thorin, waving. Bilbo muttered his farewell and walked away, lovestruck dog in tow. _Can this day get any worse?_ he thought to himself.

Little did he know...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out more about Bilbo, and there is a very smelly dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wanted to write a Comedy Pet role :)

Bofur farted in his sleep, scaring Bilbo and filling the little shop with a smell not entirely unlike Very Dead Things. Luckily they were the only two...people...in there, so at least Bilbo didn't have to worry about the godsawful aroma driving off customers. Because there were none.

_None._

Boutique shops abounded in this trendy suburb of London, with juice bars, coffee bars, nail bars, _bar_ bars, all busy, bustling, stuffed full of tall, slim, blonde and beautiful people possessed of a seemingly endless supply of cash which they threw away on everything from handmade, artisanal enemas for their teacup chihuahuas to imported bread (the _Lembas_ diet was all the rage) but nobody even seemed to notice Unexpected Journeys, let alone patronise it. 

Bilbo groaned loudly and dropped his head down to the desk, just as the bell over his door tinkled and someone walked in. Embarrassed, he looked up to see a tall, flamboyant older man in a pinstriped grey suit and dashing bow tie breeze in. “Well, isn't this place just darling!” the man announced and strode over to Bilbo's desk, where he stood, expectantly.

“Hello, how may I help you?” Bilbo enquired, hoping to cover up his faux pas with ultimate professionalism. He smiled, a cheeky, approachable grin. _I’m your friend,_ the smile said. _Nothing threatening here!_

The dapper old fellow dropped elegantly into the seat opposite Bilbo and smiled back. “Well, young fellow, I understand that you are particularly qualified to help me plan the ‘Journey of a Lifetime’!” he spread his hands and gestured as he spoke, almost looking like he was casting a spell. “I wish, with a few, select friends, to undertake a journey so magnificent, so exciting and crammed full of wonder, that people would think it was a fantasy when I told them! What can you do?” Bilbo smiled, and pulled across a few glossy brochures.

“Have you considered New Zealand…?” he asked.

Several hours later, Bilbo and Bofur reversed their journey and arrived home tired and reeking of commuter-stink. Well, Bofur just stank, but Bilbo threw himself in a long, hot shower and put on his ‘evening in’ jammies and ordered a curry to celebrate the huge commission he was going to earn from the old chap he’d helped earlier. He and thirteen friends were off on a once-in-a-lifetime, spending-their-children’s-inheritance _year long_ journey around New Zealand. It had taken the better part of three hours to cobble the trip together, with Bilbo emailing and phoning people to create something truly special. The old chap had left in a fine mood, and promising to recommend Unexpected Journeys to all his friends. Bilbo was slightly jealous, and wished he could do something so completely wild and crazy...but he knew, deep down, he was a stay-at-home kind of chap. Quietly content with his lot. The doorbell chimed, pulling him from his reverie and he looked at the clock in surprise - surely the takeaway wasn’t here already?

When he opened the door, fumbling a twenty from his wallet, he was flabbergasted to see Thorin leaning on the doorframe with a bottle of very pricey wine in one hand, and (of all things!) a bottle of disinfectant in the other. Shocked out of his normal good manners, Biblo blurted, “What do you want?”, then blushed furiously.

Thorin grinned broadly. “I thought I owed you an apology,” he said, proffering the wine. “I hope you like it: I think it goes well with most things, this one.” Then he held out the disinfectant. “Aaaannnd...I figured that if you’ve been clearing up after my drunken friends you’d probably used all of yours already?” Bilbo took both bottles dazedly, and Thorin reached up to palm the back of his neck, looking at Bilbo through his lashes, seeming genuinely embarrassed.

“Uh...ah.” said Bilbo, eruditely. “Um…” he rocked back and forth from his toes to his heels and bounced a little. He wasn’t taken aback and shocked himself when he said, “Would you like to come in? I’ve, ah, got a curry coming in a few minutes.” 

He turned and led the way in, not really expecting Thorin to follow, unsure if he would, almost praying that he wouldn’t. He berated himself furiously as he walked down the little corridor to the kitchen, called himself seven kinds of fool as he rummaged for a corkscrew, and was basically in a total state as he uncorked the wine and poured two large glassesful. He held one out to Thorin, but he had his hands full with an ecstatically-drooling Bofur, so Bilbo stood awkwardly holding both glasses and not knowing what to say to get past the uncomfortable silence he felt had sprung up. Luckily Thorin hadn’t noticed, and stood to take the glass, casually ordering Bofur to lie down - which he did! Bilbo was completely thrown and did a very good impression of a fish as Thorin took a mouthful of wine. 

“So,” Thorin said, “Have I earned your forgiveness yet?” 

His voice was very deep, and slow, and for some inexplicable reason it made Bilbo’s skin tingle. However _that_ was not reason enough to forgive the man all of the sins he’d committed since becoming Bilbo’s unwanted, unwelcome neighbour! “No,” said Bilbo, crossly, “You most certainly have _not_! The wine is welcome, more so than the disinfectant, and I thank you for the thought, but I don’t think you realise how much you’ve turned my life upside down!” He thumped his glass down onto the kitchen counter with a pissy little ‘clink’, and drew breath to continue his tirade when the doorbell rang again. He exhaled a huge, angry breath. “That’ll be the curry,” he said quietly. “Do excuse me, won’t you?”

“No, I’ll get it,” Thorin told him. “It’s the least I can do.” He left the room and a moment later Bilbo heard the click of the front door and Thorin bantering with the delivery guy. He swore once, vehemently, and turned to get plates and cutlery out for their meal. When Thorin came back into the room Bilbo said, “I’m sorry. I was out of order. Shall we eat?”

Thorin said nothing in reply, only smiled his wide smile again, and between them they divvied up the meal. Luckily Bilbo had ordered a lot - there went his leftovers for tomorrow’s dinner, oh well! - and they had a similar taste in dishes. They sat down at the kitchen island and began to eat, the silence still tense and slightly uneasy, to Bilbo at least.

Just then, Bofur rolled onto his back with all four paws in the air and let rip with the longest, loudest fart of his life. Bilbo froze - could this evening get any more embarrassing? - but then Thorin chuckled. Then giggled. Then drew in a huge breath and began laughing so hard he was gasping. Bilbo just looked at him for a few seconds, then slowly joined in, until both men were howling with laughter. The dog awoke with a start and rolled over, shaking his jowly face and regarding the pair with canine disgust, which set them off again.

“Look, I’m sorry,” said Bilbo, once he could breathe again. “Can we start again?” He set his fork down and stuck his hand out. “Hello, I’m Bilbo Baggins, your neighbour. Pleased to meet you.”

Thorin took Bilbo’s hand in his own huge one and shook it solemnly. “Thorin Oakenshield, likewise.”

“Do you mind if I put the telly on while we eat?” Bilbo asked, nodding at the small TV on the counter. “There’s a programme about snakes on the wildlife channel I was going to watch.” 

“Not a problem,” Thorin replied. Bilbo nodded and flicked the TV on. This time when they were eating again, the silence was more comfortable - almost companionable, Bilbo thought. When they finished, Thorin rinsed the dishes and Bilbo stacked them in the machine then poured two more glasses of wine. He led Thorin into his front room, and they sat on adjacent sofas. Bilbo took a long drink and sighed. “I didn’t used to be like this, you know,” he said, startling himself with the confession. What was with his mouth tonight? It seemed to be operating independently of his brain! At Thorin’s questioning eyebrow he continued. “I used to be...well, not ‘fun’, exactly, but not so uptight. I’ve become this fussy little man, and I hate it, I really do.” He closed his eyes against the humiliation of his confession, not wanting to see the smirk on the other man’s face.

After a long interval, Bilbo found the courage to open his eyes.

“I don’t think you’re like that at all,” Thorin said solemnly. “Although I don’t know you as well as I could, or as I’d like to. But I think you seem like a good guy, Bilbo. Stop being so hard on yourself.” He finished his wine and set the empty glass down on a coaster. “Why do you think you aren’t fun, anyway?”

“Well, I’m nothing like you,” Bilbo retorted.

“Am I fun?” Thorin wondered.

“Of course you are! You have parties all the time, there’s always someone coming and going, you never seem to stop…” Bilbo tailed off, suddenly realising he sounded like the worst kind of curtain twitcher. “Not that I watch you, or anything,” he said lamely. “It’s just...well, they’re always there, arent they?”

“It’s part of my job,” said Thorin. “I’m a CEO. Most of the daytime visitors are business associates. I’m currently involved in a hostile takeover; my father lost his business to a competitor ages ago, but I’m determined to get it back. The evening visitors are more of the same, only different: I’m schmoozing the necessary people to gain support, win over board members, earn votes. The easiest way to do that is by pouring large amounts of alcohol and fine food into them. I just wish I’d realised they were spoiling your garden. I’d have soon put a stop to it!” he declared fiercely.

Bilbo grinned suddenly. “How?” 

Thorin paused, mouth open as if to speak. “I-”

“You couldn’t possibly, anyway. Drunk people are notoriously hard to control. Let’s forget it. I’ll get the fence fixed and it shouldn’t happen again. OK?”

The two men smiled at each other. _Strange,_ thought Bilbo. _Just this morning I couldn’t stand this man, and now I think we might even become friends!_ They finished their wine and then Thorin stood, brushing his legs in the universal gesture for _getting-ready-to-leave_.

“I’ve another busy day tomorrow. I’ve got people over in the evening, too, but only a few. I’ll tell them to stay out of your garden before they get drunk!” He seemed to think,and then said, slowly, “Would you like to come? Maybe if you meet a few of the main players in my little drama the parties will bother you less?”

Bilbo was about to refuse automatically, but thought better of it. “I’d love to,” he said. “Maybe it’s time I got out of my comfort zone. I might even enjoy it, right?” He stood, too. “Thank you for the invitation, Thorin.” They walked out to the front door together, and Bilbo let Thorin out. The taller man stood on the front step and appeared to be on the verge of saying something, but he seemed to think better of it, only saying “Night, then, Bilbo,”

He let himself into The Modern Monstrosity and closed the door behind him. Bilbo stood looking at the streetlights painting smears and streaks on the parked cars for a few minutes, bounced on his toes again, then quietly went back indoors, a small smile on his face.


	3. An interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be part of the next chapter, but it got big enough to go out on its own. 
> 
> This is _not_ where I was planning on going, but Bilbo and Thorin have other ideas.
> 
> Still sweet, although there's a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No comedy dog in this chapter. Sorry.

A week ago.

_He sat in a corner of Thorin’s kitchen, surrounded by dirty plates, half-full wine glasses and empty bowls. Partygoers moved around him, a baffling, exuberant crowd of loud hearty men and their surprisingly fierce ladies, the noise of chatter and laughter and odd bursts of what sounded like singing all mixing in Bilbo’s head to create a migraine-inducing cacophony. He felt sick. It was too loud, too bright, too hot, too busy. And the revellers seemed to think he was hired help, for nobody had spoken to him since Thorin’s greeting at the door unless is was to call, “more wine? There's a good fellow!” He’d had enough._

 _Bilbo slipped from the stool and wandered into the back garden, passing through floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors and emerging onto a three -level deck leading into a Zen garden of sand, stones, bonsai and tiny, artistic water features._

I can see why they come into my garden to be sick, _Bilbo thought wryly._ You couldn't so much a sneeze out here and hide it! _He meandered along the raked paths, his mind not on anything in particular, when he saw a slim, dark young man and a beautiful woman wearing dark green emerging from two bushes which abutted Bilbo’s own fence.

They blushed and giggled when they saw Bilbo's disapproving face, pulling their clothes to rights amidst nudges and smirks. The man grabbed the woman's hand and towed her towards the house past the silently fuming Bilbo."Excuse us! Come on Tori!"

“That’s enough!” Bilbo said aloud. “I’m going home!” He pushed through the bushes and found the broken section of fence which led into his own garden. Scents of night-blooming flowers swirled around him as he emerged, an impractical and romantic profusion of flowers and hedges leading the eye towards the little arbour at the end. Bilbo trod the familiar path without thinking and sank down onto the bench with a sigh, consciously trying to let go of the stress tightening his muscles. The dark night soaked into his mind and soothed him until, without realising it, he fell asleep.

He was woken by the sense of another person nearby. Opening his eyes he saw a dark shape looming in front of him and gasped, heart pounding. “It's me, don't panic,” said Thorin’s voice, and he moved so the light showed his face. Bilbo gulped a breath and sat up straight, fumbling for a polite reason why he'd left the party without saying goodbye. Really, there was no excuse for bad manners. “I wondered where you'd gone,” Thorin said.

“I'm really not used to the society of others, anymore,” Bilbo answered quietly. “Before you moved in, I'd often go days without speaking to another person. It was all a bit much. Sorry.”

Thorin sat next to him. It was a tight fit, the bench not having been designed for two men, especially not ones with shoulders as broad as Thorin's, but they sat in companionable, thoughtful silence until Bilbo turned towards Thorin, mouth open to speak._

Thorin. Kissed. Him. 

So quickly, so softly, that at first Bilbo wondered if he'd imagined it; a moonlit fancy, or passing thought. But no, for Thorin leaned in and repeated the kiss - warm, firm lips, faint pressure, a whispered breath across Bilbo’s cheek. 

Bilbo brought both hands up and pushed against Thorin's chest, shoving the larger man back. “What are you doing?” he asked with deceptive calm.

“Kissing you, obviously.”

“Might I enquire as to _why_?”

“You didn't want me to?”

“Did I ask you to?”

“Well, no, but...I thought you were...you're not interested, are you?” Thorin's face, even just lit by the moon, was flushed dark. He looked awful. Bilbo felt something inside him respond to that look and pushed it down. 

“I had barely spoken a civil word to you before this morning,” he stated. “I've just spent three hours at a miserable excuse for a party where your associates treated me like wait staff, and had only just woken from a nap. Which of these actions led you to believe I was 'interested’, Thorin?” He was proud of himself for his calm tone, which belied none of the confusion he felt. Thorin looked at him miserably, his habitual cheer and confidence nowhere to be seen.

“I'm sorry,” he said then stood. “I'm so, so sorry. I...I don't usually misread signals that badly, and I certainly don't push myself on people if they aren't interested. Gods, I'm, I'm…” he stopped. Rubbed the back of his neck in what Bilbo recognised as distress. Sighed once, heavily. I'll go,” he said. “I won't bother you again. I...I really am sorry, Bilbo.” and with that he went back to his own garden, leaving Bilbo lost in his own troubled thoughts in the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is angsty. And Angry.
> 
> Thorin is sorry.
> 
> However, being sorry isn't enough sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, these two keep going and doing their own thing on me. This was going to be all romantic, I was planning on Thorin being all Romantic Gesturish, but it turns out he's totally bad at apologies and Bilbo doesn't want to be swept away. SO we get this instead. Oops.

It had been a week.

Seven days. 

One hundred and…. _Oh, shut up!_ Bilbo shouted at himself before rolling over in bed and pulling the covers over his head. He groaned out loud before flopping to his back and drumming his fists and heels on the mattress, screaming his frustration through clenched teeth. Bofur barked at him once in confusion and ambled out of the room in a cloud of gas. 

Tantrum over, Bilbo lay quietly, tangled in his sheets and feeling more than a little foolish. He took several slow, deep breaths and imagined himself as a small animal living secure in a deep, cool hole in a hill. The mindfulness exercise worked, tension flowing from his mind and body, and after a few minutes he unwound enough to throw back the covers and get up. As his feet touched the floor he felt panic and shame welling up again, but talked very firmly to himself until it was under control.

Showered, dressed and breakfasted, he and Bofur found themselves once more on the tube heading for work, crammed in among commuters and tourists. Bilbo kept his head down and refused to make eye contact, ostentatiously reading a book until they reached their stop. It didn’t matter; the person he wasn’t avoiding, wasn’t thinking about, hadn’t seen for an entire week, wasn’t on the train anyway. And hadn’t been at all this week. He sighed and trudged out of the tube station along to his shop. He unlocked the door, turned off the burglar alarm, flicked the lights on and unclipped Bofur’s lead. The dog waddled over to the desk and flopped into his basket with a gusty sigh. Obviously the life of a commuter dog was an exhausting one. Bilbo nearly smiled. 

He went into the kitchenette and flicked on the kettle. Misery was doing strange things to his appetite - today he was ravenous, enough for a second breakfast. Maybe a third, later. For now he popped a couple of crumpets into the electric toaster and once they were cooked spread them with butter and honey. He took his crumpets and a cup of tea out to his desk and ate breakfast number two while surfing the web _not_ Googling any CEO in particular. His not-Googling brought up several thousand hits, the most recent of which was from a society event the night before. Thorin, in formal black tie and tux, was draped over one of the tall blondes who seemed to throng around him wherever he went. Bilbo choked back a sneer and pulled up a game of Mahjong instead.

Fourteen games and no customers later, he pushed himself up, woke Bofur and leashed him, then flicked over the door sign to _Back in ten minutes!_ before stomping round to the chi-chi cafe on the corner, where he ordered an all-day breakfast baguette. And a muffin. And a slice of Victoria sponge. The girl behind the counter looked at him disbelievingly when he asked for a steak and kidney pie as well, but Bilbo just glared at her and stabbed his PIN into the card machine. He grabbed his food then stomped back to work, head down, arms pumping, mood worsening. He wasn’t looking where he was going, and it was inevitable that in such a crowded part of London he would eventually crash into someone. The breath was knocked out of both of them, and Bilbo’s bag of goodies crashed to the pavement. Bilbo crouched down to rescue his food before Bofur ‘saved’ it, and not-so-comically bumped heads with his crash victim. They both straightened up. “Oh my word, I’m so -!” said Bilbo. 

“I’m sorry too,” said Thorin softly.

Bilbo gaped, torn between apologising and punching the man in front of him. After a frozen moment (where he was dimly aware that his mouth was hanging open and he looked rather foolish), he snapped his mouth shut and brushed past Thorin to juggle dog lead, food, and suddenly clumsy fingers in an effort to find his keys to get back in the shop. He managed this without making himself look much more of an idiot and led Bofur into the shop. Thorin followed, but Bilbo tried not to think about it. He heard the sound of the lock snicking shut behind him and turned to see Thorin pulling the blind down over the window. “Um, what do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

“Giving us time to talk, and privacy to do it in,” Thorin replied. He was perfectly calm and reasonable and Bilbo hated him for it, just a little. 

“Well, excuse me for pointing it out, _Mr_ Oakenshield, but some of us have a living to earn, and we can’t while our business is being kept closed for us by overbearing, arrogant _BASTARDS_!” By the time he finished, his chest was heaving, his hands clenched into fists by his sides, his face outwardly calm but flushed deep red with his anger.

Thorin folded his arms, crossed one leg over the other, and leaned back against the doorjamb. “Finished?” he enquired. Bilbo nodded, taken aback by just how angry he was getting, but unsure how to deal with it. “Good,” said Thorin. “Please sit. I need to talk to you, and you've managed to completely avoid me when I've been at home.” Bilbo sat obediently, a small voice at the back of his head quietly pointing out that he was being a pushover. Thorin pushed off of the door frame and paced the little shop, trailing his long fingers over brochures and travel posters. 

“First off, I was out of order, and I'm sorry. I know it's an inadequate word, but it's all I can say, and I'll keep saying it til you believe me.” He stopped and turned toward Bilbo, sincerity all over his face. After a couple of loaded, weighty seconds of silence in which Bilbo just stared at Thorin, waiting for more, Thorin threw his hands up and growled. Actually _growled_!

He stalked towards Bilbo and leaned forwards, planting his fists on the scarred wood, getting right up in Bilbo’s face. “I'm _sorry_!” he said tightly. Bilbo didn't respond. Thorin growled again, louder, and Bilbo tensed up. At that, Bofur got involved and he began barking happily, adding in his two pence’ worth. 

“Well, I’m sorry too,” Bilbo replied with quiet dignity. “I’m sorry that you decided after twenty-four hour’s acquaintance to kiss me without being asked, or without asking. I’m sorry that you built that execrable eyesore next to my house. I’m sorry that you seem to have nothing better to do than discover new ways to distress, vex and disturb me! I’m sorry that you seem to be the kind of man who doesn’t consider other people at all, except as some kind of, of…” he gestured, turning his index finger in circles as he searched for the right word to show Thorin just how wrong he was, “ _some kind of puppets_ , to be manipulated according to your will!” His chest heaved with the gathering force of his fury and he gulped for air, trying to keep his anger manageable. “Not only that, but you accost me at my place of work, intrude yet again where you are not wanted, and impose your will on me once more in order to allegedly apologise? I don’t think you even know what ‘sorry’ means, Mr. Oakenshield.” He pointed his, proud that his hand didn’t shake. “Now, I would like you to leave. Please.” 

Thorin’s face was pale, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping. He seemed frozen to the spot. “Leave,” Bilbo asked again. “And kindly don’t come back.” He turned and took his lunch into the kitchenette, dismissing Thorin without a backward glance. After a minute he heard the door unlock and open with a tinkle from the bell, then close again quietly. He sighed, shaky all of a sudden, but quite proud of himself for not being cowed by the bigger, more charismatic man. He plated up all of his food - apart from the pie, which was for Bofur - and carried it back through to the desk. In the middle of the desk was a post it note. _I really am sorry,_ it read. _I would like to try and make it up to you. Text or call if I can help with anything. T._ Below that was a mobile number. Bilbo screwed the post-it up and binned it with a scoff. As if!

However, just as he was getting ready to go home, he fished it back out of the bin and stuffed it into his pocket before shoving his phone and loose change on top. He chose not to look too deeply at his motivation for the action and went home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin has to deal with the fact he's been a bit of a dickhead.
> 
> In fact, he has reached new and embarrassing depths of dickheadery. Poor bloke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a navel gazing warning.
> 
> I apologise for the angst - it just sort of happens when I write. If it gets much worse I'll have to add a hurt/comfort tag before the end of things. Rating upgraded to Teen because I think the tone's changed.

“What...what? Ugh…”

Thorin rolled over and struggled to a sitting position, then swore when the world threatened to crash down on his pounding head. What the hell was he doing in the garden? He scrubbed his face, wincing as tiny bits of gravel from the meditation garden were rubbed into his face before plinking to the ground. 

In slow, gentle stages he made it onto his hands and knees, and then into a kind of crouching, nauseating hobble. Thorin wobbled through the garden and in through the wide-open French doors to his blindingly chrome-and-white kitchen, squinting in pain as the unkind sunlight seemed to bounce off of every single surface before burrowing into his brain like a laser. Disbelieving tears ran down his face and into the sweaty three-day stubble on his chin. Making it as far as the industrial-size (never used) sink, Thorin proceeded to puke until his toes felt empty. He ran the tap to flush the sink and filled a glass with water, which he drunk. Slowly, in tiny, red-hot increments, his brain and higher functions came back online, memory being one of them. 

One memory in particular presented itself front and centre. Thorin paled and clutched at his aching head at the idea it was true. It couldn’t be, could it? He almost ran back to the living room and snatched up his phone, taking several attempts to unlock it before succeeding. It opened straight onto his last app, a music downloader. It was paused. At the top of the screen it said _Playing from playlist: Where’s My Bilbo?_

Oh, Gods.

Oh, gods, gods, smiting, screaming, swiving _gods_!

If that part was true...Thorin quickly tapped through to his email server. First in ‘sent emails’ was one headed ‘I really really love you’, sent to B.Baggins_adventurer@gmail.com at 2.42am the night before. Thorin groaned. Please, no….clarity returned on tide of hot bile like a dodgy prawn cocktail and he crumpled at the knees. He clutched his head in his hands and felt something prickly. He pulled, muttering as it untangled from his hair, and swore viciously at the sight of a twig from what could only be Bilbo's garden hedge. “Shit, shit, _shit_!” he shouted. This meant only one thing. However, he couldn't deal with even thinking about it in his current state so he went to clean up instead.

An hour later, showered, shaved, dressed and on his second mug of coffee, Thorin took a deep breath and deliberately recalled the events leading up to waking up face down on the gravel of his meditation garden that morning.

After royally screwing up his chance to fix things with Bilbo three days ago, Thorin had, well, sulked all the way home. He was rich, well-bred, successful and a leader of industry, and used to people fawning on him and wanting to be with him just because of who and what he was. Women and men alike threw themselves at him, hoping that a little of the Thorin glamour would touch them as a result. Thorin hadn't wanted for companionship of any description since he'd been old enough to sprout facial hair.

He hadn't noticed his quiet next door neighbour when he'd bought the land to build his house. He'd just seen the postcode and the plans and thought of the investment potential. The foreman of the site had occasionally reported complaints from the neighbour - who Thorin had pictured as a fussy, bitter older man - but Thorin had ignored them all. Money and influence meant the house had been ready in record time and Thorin moved in and prepared to enjoy the good life.

He couldn't say when he'd first noticed his next-door neighbour 'like that': he'd sent whisky and a scribbled note of thanks 'for putting up with the inconvenience of the build’ and not thought about it thereafter. But one day he'd been out on the balcony sipping coffee when he'd looked down to see Mr. Baggins just pottering in his garden and playing with his dog.

The peace and domesticity of the scene had really struck Thorin. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt as content as Mr. Baggins looked. Curiosity unfurled in his heart, and he sat, unobserved, and watched while his neighbour finished his chores and whistled the dog back indoors. 

The next time he'd seen the chap, he'd been pounding on the door of Thorin's house after midnight one night. Thorin was hosting a party (for the third night in a row) for yet more political types, trying to curry favour for an advantageous bill, and things had gotten a little rowdy once the hookers arrived. He'd opened the door to see Mr. Baggins (who was shorter than he looked, close up) in his dressing gown and slippers, hair on end, scowling ferociously. “Do you mind?” he'd screamed. “Some of us have real jobs and need to sleep occasionally! Do you have any idea when this ruckus will stop? Please?” he'd added sarcastically. 

Thorin had just grinned. “Nope,” he'd said. “Sorry.” One of the ladies had come and wrapped and arm around him before trying to stick her hand down his trousers. “Do you want to come in?” Thorin had asked cheekily. “There’s spares!” Bilbo had just glared at him before storming off and slamming his door. 

After that Thorin had sort of gone out of his way to bump into Bilbo, to provoke a reaction, yet if he saw him in the garden he'd just watch and wonder. He saw nothing wrong with either of these behaviours, failing to see they were both immature and unpleasant. The longer he observed Bilbo, the more they skirmished over the usually inconsequential niggles of neighbouring, the more Thorin was aware he was coming to develop… feelings for Mr. Baggins. 

Fast forward to the scene three days ago. Fast forward a little more to Thorin, sat on his couch with a bottle of tequila and a crappy action film on Netflix. As the level of tequila inside Thorin rose and the level in the bottle dropped, so did Thorin's anger and disappointment at the way things had gone.

“People have offered me all sorts for just a kiss,” he muttered. “Sexy people. Funny people. _Powerful_ people. Who does he think he is? _And_ I bloody well apologised!” He continued in this vein to the bottom of the bottle and well into the vodka he opened next. The following couple of days blurred into a haze of booze, takeout, swearing and (deep down, where he tried not to notice it) misery. 

All of which led to him creating the “Where's my Bilbo?” playlist and crawling through the hole in the hedge to serenade his erstwhile love at gone three in the morning. His erstwhile love hadn't appreciated Thorin's heartfelt rendition of Toni Braxton's _Unbreak My Heart_ , nor Meatloaf’s _For Crying Out Loud_ , and when Thorin had reached _Locked out of Heaven_ by Bruno Mars, Bilbo had come out of the house to inform Thorin in a deadly quiet voice that he was being a nuisance and an embarrassment and if he didn't leave immediately, he, Bilbo would call the police and have him, Thorin, arrested for stalking and anything else he thought might stick. Thorin remembered crying (oh, gods, no), but Bilbo being complerely unmoved and retreating inside his neat little house and locking the door. Thorin had just barely made it back through the hedge when alcohol, shame and exhaustion caught up with him and he fell down and slept, despite the discomfort of his location.

Thorin felt real shame as he made himself contfront his actions. 

Right from the beginning of his acquaintance with Bilbo he'd acted like the crassest, most unthinking and entitled kind of bully, however much Thorin might have thought he was being funny or cool or...he didn't know, macho? He'd ignored Bilbo’s wishes, insulted him, and tried to impose his will on him, not once thinking of anything other than how he, Thorin, felt. The realisation he'd been a complete bastard came as a shock to Thorin and he sat, stunned and silent for a good long while.

If he really did love Bilbo, Thorin thought (and he was fairly sure he did, because this amount of concern for the feelings of another was unusual for Thorin), then he had to start acting like it. He had to respect Bilbo's wishes and back the hell off. He'd probably blown his chance of ever getting to be with Bilbo, and to be frank he didn't think he deserved another chance, ever, anyway. But despite that it was time to change. Time to think about the 'little’ people. To stop living like the whole world owed Thorin just for existing. Whatever happened in the future, and Thorin had to accept he had no control over it, last night was his rock bottom and today was the day he began the long climb up the mountain to the top again. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both of our heroes realise that things can't continue as they were, and make an effort to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All therapy techniques in this chapter are made up, or manipulated for story purposes and are completely...well, bullshit. 
> 
> Sorry for continuing angst and possible added melodrama. I watched too many soap operas at an impressionable age :)
> 
> I also have a redemption story fetish. Oops...

Time passed, as time will.

Bilbo, reeling from the idea of being someone’s object of desire, and frankly astonished that his someone was _Thorin_ , off all people, took a long, hard look at his life and realised that he needed to make some changes. Safety and security were all well and good, but some risks could also be good. He paid for a really good website designer to overhaul Unexpected Journey’s webpage. Bilbo also took a course in effective social media at the local college, and putting his newfound skills to use in the shop, business slowly flourished. He also screwed his courage to the sticking post and made a very scary phone call (before his nerve failed).

“Gooood morning!”

“Uh, hello? May I speak to Mr. Grey, please?”

“Yes, speaking?”

“Mr. Grey, I hope you don’t mind me contacting you like this, it’s Mr. Baggins from the travel agents…”

“Oh, dear boy! Hello! There isn’t anything wrong with my little holiday, is there?”

“Not at all, Mr. Grey, and that’s why I’m phoning you.” Bilbo took a deep breath. “I was calling to ask you for your help with an idea I’ve had.”

“Well, now I’m intrigued - say on, and you must call me Gandalf.”

“Thank you, Gandalf - I am Bilbo. Let me tell you what I’m thinking of…”

Bilbo quickly outlined his idea: a travelog written from the perspective of an older traveller. “There are so many written by younger men, off on adventures with their friends, climbing mountains, fording rivers, getting drunk and tattooed; I think it would be great to have one from an older perspective.” He used as much charisma and persuasion as he could muster. Gandalf laughed.

“Does this mean my friends and I _can’t_ get drunk tattoos?” he asked.

“Of course not!” Bilbo laughed too. “But if you do, you put it in your blog. And I’d put it on my website, and maybe we could both change the face of travel for the Silver Generation! Not to imply that older people never do anything adventurous,” he reassured, “Far from it - but we hardly ever get to hear about it. What do you think?”

There was a pause while Gandalf mulled the idea over. “You know what, my dear boy,” he said, “ I think it’s a simply _marvellous_ idea! You may certainly count me in. Now, let’s discuss what’s in it for each of us, shall we?”

They soon hammered out the details, and once Gandalf and his companions left for New Zealand his ‘Unexpected Blog’ became a big success on the blog, drawing lots of hits and redirecting traffic to the shop’s website. Bilbo saw sales increase to the point where he had to take on an assistant at the shop, and Bofur gained so much notoriety that he had his own, massively popular twitter account, @Bofur_Traveldog.

Things were really looking up for Bilbo. He’d discovered that sometimes life can’t be about what is safe, and familiar, and comfortable, and he’d grown as a result. Yes, some of his ideas didn’t go so well (bleaching his hair was one notable failure), but he learned to try, and to engage more with the process of living.

Thorin, meanwhile, was experiencing almost the reverse.

His shame and distress following humiliating himself of Bilbo’s back lawn had caused him to reassess what it meant to be a success. He realised that his current lifestyle wasn’t healthy, and his attitude even less so. He called in his senior management and delegated some of the schmoozing duties and the face-to-face meetings, holding the absolutely necessary social arrangements in hotels rather than at home, and also bought in his two nephews to help with the business. The process of regaining the portion of the company his father had lost during the hostile takeover still continued, but Thorin built a good team to help him. Work was going better than ever, and without Thorin micromanaging and poisoning his liver to boot.

Thorin’s revelations concerning his less-than-pleasant personality traits caused him to find a good therapist (he’d always scoffingly dismissed therapy before) and spend some real time talking over what he’d discovered. Surprisingly there _were_ a few stereotypical daddy issues to work through; Thorin’s feelings of abandonment, his feeling that his dad had let him down; there was also the almost narcissistic self-belief required for Thorin to do as well as he did in business; the megalomaniac tendencies; and deep down, his loneliness and longing for someone to trust, who would see him and appreciate him just for being Thorin, the man. Not Thorin, the successful businessman and tenth richest man in Britain, etc. 

On the therapist’s recommendation, Thorin started journalling. He spent ten minutes every day free-writing, and found it quite freeing. It gave him space to be honest about himself and with himself. He laid himself bare on the page - successes, failures, flaws and strengths all there in black and white. Slowly, he began to know himself and to work on achieving balance within himself.

He also took a proper holiday - not one where he met foreign business contacts, but an actual break, just for him. The therapist called it ‘getting to know himself’, as he’d spent most of his life surrounded by other people to the point where he could only see himself through other people’s eyes. Thorin discovered in himself a deep need for solitude and on his return began building ‘me time’ into his schedule. He began, slowly, to change - still confident, still a natural leader, but quieter and steadier. 

Thorin’s biggest regret was the way he had left things with Bilbo. He had been as assiduous as his neighbour in avoiding deliberate contact, and if they had bumped into each other, both men had avoided eye contact and mumbled greetings before escaping as soon as possible. Thorin knew it was completely his fault, but hadn’t a clue how to put things right. He’d referred as many of his friends and contacts as he could to Bilbo’s travel agency, and had had the fence between the gardens mended, as well as sending a landscaper round to fix the depredations caused to Bilbo by Thorin’s guests over time...but he knew this didn’t fix the situation at all, and was really the bare minimum.

He talked it over with his therapist.

“I’m not used to this,” he grumbled. “I can’t handle feeling so uncertain of myself. I hate that I treated him like I did. I wish I could wave a magic wand and just _fix it_.

His counsellor smiled gently. “What do you think you should, or could do, then?” she asked.

Thorin put his head in his hands. “I apologised,” he said quietly. The therapist didn’t speak. “Well, I said it was an apology,” Thorin confessed, “But really, I just wanted him to forgive me so I could feel better. It wasn’t about him.” He sighed.

“So…?”

“So...I need to really apologise. Properly. For him. And if he chooses not to forgive me, I need to let it go.”

“How do you think you should apologise?”

“Considering we can’t even say good morning to each other, not face-to-face. A phone call or email is impersonal, and he could ignore me. I think...maybe a letter?” Thorin looked up at his counsellor. She smiled encouragingly. “I will, I’ll write him a letter.” Thorin thought. “I might...I might share some of my journal with him. I...I violated him, before, and it seems fair that I make myself vulnerable in restitution.” Decision made, he felt better, more certain in himself. “Yes. that’s what I’ll do. And if he doesn’t want to forgive me, it’s totally his right, and I will respect that.” The counsellor nodded quietly. Thorin smiled. 

That night, after he’d journalled, Thorin sat with a pen and paper and began to write. He made mistakes, crossed things out, talked in circles, repeated himself, and worried about every word he wrote. But write he did. He poured himself onto the page with as much honesty and humility as he could muster. The man who shaped himself on that page was sincerely sorry, but also passionate, funny, wry, and painfully honest. 

The letter took nearly a week to write, until Thorin felt it was done. There were nearly twelve pages of it, and as he folded them into the envelope thorin felt both lighter in his heart and sick as a dog. This was his only chance to make things right, and he hoped against hope that Bilbo would read the letter and not just bin it as soon as he saw who it was from.

_Courage,_ Thorin said to himself, and posted the letter through Bilbo’s door.


	7. A letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's apology to Bilbo in all its heartfelt, ungrammatical glory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and I suffered to write this... :)

Dear Bilbo,

It's strange that that’s the standard greeting on a letter, whether you're addressing a complete stranger or your closest friend, isn't it? I mean, after everything I've put you through, everything I said and did, to address you as 'dear’ feels somehow presumptuous, and inappropriate.

Anyway, I digress.

I'm writing to you firstly - most importantly - to apologise for my inexcusable behaviour towards you. I’m not sure if ‘inexcusable’ is the right word; it feels overly melodramatic, and I worry that it sounds ~~pompous~~ ~~ridiculous~~ insincere, and I deeply want for you to understand how very sorry, and very sincere, I am.

My second reason for writing is to explain my actions. **NOT** to excuse them!!! Since ~~you told me where to go~~ that horrible night I have been forced to look at my life and reassess how I behave, how I treat others, ~~and I’ve realised I’m basically an arsehole~~ and how to change. Part of this process has been attending regular therapy sessions. During therapy, things have come to light which (like I said) **slightly** explain why I behaved how I did, but which in no way excuse my actions towards you at any time.

SO. Where do I start?

First things first, I suppose?

I am, from the bottom of my heart, so very sorry for my behaviour towards you. Firstly, how I acted during the building of ~~the Monstrosity~~ my home. I realise that the building doesn’t fit the tone of the area, and has probably had an impact on the value of your own home, and I understand from things you've said that the look of my home distresses you. I was also ~~a bastard about~~ dismissive of your right to complain about the noise and inconvenience such a protracted building project would cause in such close proximity to your home. I was a cocky, smug sod, and I am wholeheartedly sorry, Bilbo. Please accept my apology for the distress I caused. 

Next. Oh...this one is **difficult**! 

I don’t know if you’re aware that I used to ~~spy on observe~~ watch you? That’s not as creepy as it sounds… Shit, it probably is, isn’t it? I didn’t mean to be invasive, and the fact that you never caught me doing it doesn’t make it less invasive or any more appropriate. It was wrong of me to watch you without your knowledge or consent, and again, I’m sorry. This, however, brings up one of the points I feel I should explain. I don’t want to, but I’m going to. *Takes a deep breath* *Doesn’t drink whisky because I’ve realised alcohol doesn’t bring out the best in me* Oh, for fuck’s sake, Oakenshield, just **DO IT!!!!**

Do these things always start ‘I had a difficult childhood’? Gods, I feel so cliche…

It wasn’t really difficult, as such, but my father and grandfather were both so heavily invested (ha, I made a funny!) in the running of the company that I felt like I was only...I don’t know, _worthwhile_ , perhaps? as an extension of them and the company. So right from a young age everything was about striving and succeeding and ‘making my bloody mark’ on whoever, blah, blah, blah...and before I knew it, I was this entitled, arrogant, driven man, and somehow out of touch with my own humanity. Over the years I’ve developed this skill of being all things to all people whilst still doing exactly what I want, and - maybe because of **who** I am, maybe because of **how** I am, nobody’s ever called me on it. Well, until you. But more of that later.

~~So I started watching you.~~ Then I met you. You have no idea how...how **alien** you seemed to me at first. So quiet, so contained, so...content. I wanted to know you so badly, Bilbo. I wanted to know what you knew, to have what you had. And slowly, over time, as we sparred publicly and I watched you privately, I came to have...feelings. And I called those feelings ‘love’, because that’s what I thought they were, truly. 

There’s not way to say this that doesn’t sound completely wrong. I can’t do this anymore!

Just so you know, when you read this, I haven’t written a word in two days. I’ve been reading my journals (I’d like to show them to you, one day) and I’ve seen my therapist, and I’ve had work (always work, but not as much as before), and I’ve been...thinking. I want so badly for you to know just how sorry I am, and I want the words to be _right_ , Bilbo...and I’m scared that I’ll screw all of this up, and you won’t understand, or believe me, and I don’t know what to say. I’m not going to make myself write anything else tonight. I’ll come back to this when I can do it properly. 

It’s been a week. I had to fly to Dubai - although I’m making an effort to delegate more of the business to the very capable, very gifted people I’ve hired (and my nephews are now helping out. I’m trying not to teach them as I was taught, but it’s difficult breaking the habits of a lifetime) - but some stuff is still down to me. I think it was a productive trip, and I’m hopeful I’ll be able to regain the parts of the company which I lost in that hostile takeover...I’m rambling again, sorry.

Anyway, all that time in a hotel room meant thinking time. I’ve been trying to make restitution to people I’ve hurt over the years, Bilbo and oh my **Gods** has it been hard. I don’t mean financially, I can afford _that_ , I mean this complete change to my worldview. I can’t believe how much of a bastard I’ve been for most of my life. It hurts to see myself through new eyes...through **your eyes**. 

Bilbo. Argh, where’s my bloody courage?

I am truly, sincerely, **abjectly** sorry for the many, innumerable hurts I have caused to you. I realise that my actions were bullying and uncaring, and what I presented to you as ‘love’ was probably as far from what the word means as it’s possible to be. There is no reason, no excuse for how I have treated you.

I deeply regret pushing a kiss on you without asking. I am sorry that I followed you to work and intimidated you while convincing myself that I was ‘apologising’. I am sorry for the embarrassment of my drunken behaviour that last night in your garden. I am sorry for putting the blame for my behaviour upon you, and by word and behaviour implying that **you** the one in the wrong, when it was all down to me. Words don’t feel like anywhere near enough to make amends for the way I acted.

~~I just wish I could speak to you face to face…~~

If there is anything I can do to convince you of my sincerity, Bilbo, I will do it. If that means moving house so you never have to see me again, I’ll do it. Oh, there goes my inner Victorian author again. But seriously, please do tell me. If I never hear back, I will accept that. The ball is totally in your court. 

There should be more, I feel, but I’m ending it here. I will await any reply you care to make.

Yours in hope,

Thorin Oakenshield.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grand finale, presented in a series of notes, texts, much feelz and canine flatulence. (Yay, Bofur's back!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original prompter wanted sweet and feelz and I may possibly have gone slightly overboard. Also, because it's romance, I get to skip all the gritty realistic stuff on just go Full Fluff Ahead.
> 
> This is a level ten Sickly Sweet Warning. Read at your own risk ;)

Mr Oakenshield,

I’ve received your letter. I didn’t think it would be fair on you not to acknowledge that, considering the content. I will...think about what you said and will or won’t be in touch depending on what I decide.

Bilbo Baggins. Dear Bilbo,

Thank you for acknowledging receipt. It put my mind at rest. Thank you for the (entirely unearned) consideration.

Thorin.

Dear...Thorin,

I’ve read your letter. Several times. I’m still unsure how to respond. I’m...I can see **why** you might have become the way you did, but… I don’t know. The idea of being the object (and you **did** objectify me; you didn’t know me enough for it to be anything else) of anyone’s...affection? Desire? Whatever-the-hell-that-was… it doesn't sit well with me, Thorin. Especially not when I know the end result.

Anyway. I’ve read it, and I’m still thinking about it. 

Bilbo.

Dear Bilbo,

If you want me to explain further, or better, I am prepared to. I can write, show you my journals, talk on the phone...even meet with my legal team present if you want witnesses or some kind of guarantee of my good behaviour. Whatever you need, however you need it, whenever you’re ready.

Thorin.

Thorin,

I think that lawyers would be overkill, just a bit. You really **are** prone to melodrama, aren’t you? Have you considered a life on the stage instead of in a boardroom? :)

I’ve still got your mobile number (that’s probably some deep psychological thing, there, but let’s gloss over it for now), so I think the next stage would be messaging or texting. If we can ‘talk’ in real time, it might be easier to perhaps reach a compromise.

Bilbo.

**************

When Thorin’s phone beeped, he jumped about a foot in the air. It was two am and he was mindlessly watching Bob Ross painting happy little trees on Netflix, trying not to think about wine or Bilbo. Still, at this time of night, it could be Hong Kong or Australia, so he (resentfully) pulled his phone towards him and swiped the screen to unlock it. 

_Want to chat?_

What the fuck? Not _more_ prank texts! Thorin paid a small fortune to attempt the guaranteed privacy of his mobile number. Angrily he stabbed back a reply: **WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU? IT’S TWO AM!!!!!**

The reply flashed back almost immediately.

_Bilbo. Sorry, I’ll go._

Thorin swore, fingers flying, fumbling in his haste.

**No, don’t! Sorry, I didn’t know it was you, I never got your number in return. I’d *love* to chat.** He hit ‘send’ and sat praying like a crazy man. After what felt like at least a hundred years, his phone beeped again.

_Didn't think about that. Sorry. Are you ok?_

**I’m tired. And bored. I stopped drinking - sometimes I can’t sleep without a drink.**

_Oh. That’s...not nice. Does it happen often?_

**Not that often. Enough that it’s annoying, rather than life-altering. Anyway, why are you awake at this ungodsly hour?**

_Bofur decided to be sick. On my bed (!!!)_

**Sorry, I laughed! Why was he sick?**

_Well, looking at the result, it would appear he ate a loaf of bread. AND the wrapper._

**Is he ok? Can’t that be dangerous?**

_He’s fine, thankfully. Utterly abashed and feeling very sorry for himself. I just had to change the bedding and put a wash load on, so now I’m wide awake._

**That’s rough.**

_Anyway, I’ve still got work and stuff tomorrow. My new assistant is very good, but a bit odd, so I can’t leave him unsupervised for long. Sorry to have disturbed you._

**It’s fine. I was awake anyway. Hope you have an uneventful rest-of-tonight.**

_Thanks. You too. ___

 _ _Thorin sat and held his phone for a couple of minutes, then a huge smile spread irrepressibly over his face. “ _He got in touch_!” he whispered to himself. “ _ **YES!**_ ” He stored Bilbo’s number then flicked the TV off and wandered off to bed, a happier, more hopeful man.__

 _ _

*******

The texting continued at odd times. Sometimes it was Thorin who initiated it, sometimes Bilbo. They didn’t ever really talk about what had happened, but over time they became more comfortable with each other. They soon progressed to phone calls and Thorin learned to drop what he called his ‘cloak of utter bastard-ness’ around Bilbo and let the other man see his flaws and his less-confident side. Bilbo conversely learned to be more confident and turned out to have a wicked sense of humour. He was also a chronic flirt, and it was more often than not Bilbo who steered their chats toward more personal areas. Thorin became more secure in being vulnerable, and Bilbo found he enjoyed being more of a leader in their interactions. When they’d been texting for about a month, Bilbo decided it was time to progress.

********

Thorin was in his kitchen drinking coffee and trying to wake up when he heard a thump at the French windows. He jumped and sloshed hot coffee down his shirt, looking up to see Bofur on the other side of the glass, tail wagging, drool dripping, a huge doggy smile on his face. Thorin grinned and got up, mopping at his shirt, and went to open the door. “Hello, Bofur!” he said. “How did you get over here? I had the fence fixed, boy! No, I haven’t got bacon,” he swiped at Bofur, who was nudging insistently at Thorin’s knee. “Oh for goodness’ sake!” said Thorin with exasperation. “You daft animal!”

Bofur left Thorin’s knee alone and went and sat at the back door before giving one huge, deep “Woof!” and waiting with a look of canine patience for thorin to catch up. Thorin took two steps towards Bofur and the dog stood, his entire body shaking with the force of his wagging. Thorin stopped and Bofur sat back down. After a moment, and feeling horribly like he’d fallen into some surreal, 1950’s-movie wormhole, Thorin ventured, “Do you want me to follow you?” Bofur stood again and wagged some more before turning and heading out the door. Thorin followed him, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

The hole in the fence was back. In a way. Bofur nudged at the bottom of a fence panel and it tilted, allowing him to pass between the two gardens easily. Thorin stared. When had this been done? And by whom? He ducked down and followed Bofur’s chubby butt into Bilbo’s garden, calling “Hello? Bilbo?” as he did so. Once he was through, Thorin straightened up and saw Bilbo standing in the middle of the garden in his jammies. He gaped, feeling progressively more surreal with each moment. “Oh. Um. Hi,” he said with a total lack of cool. “I, uh, followed Bofur...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, I’ll go back now…” Thorin began to back up, but Bilbo smiled and put a hand out.

“No, it’s ok,” Bilbo said. “I sent him. I was too much of a chicken to knock on the front door. Morning,” he said, rocking backward onto his heels and looking slightly abashed. 

“What do you want?” asked Thorin. “I mean, I’m happy you wanted to talk, but you could have sent a text...and what happened to the fence?”

At this Bilbo grinned widely. “I, ah, decided that you couldn’t be the only person in this relationship with, ah, _inappropriate_ boundaries,” he said. “Sorry, that’s an awful pun, isn’t it? Bofur missed you,” he nodded toward the dog, who was cleaning his undercarriage with a noise like a vacuum cleaner being sucked into a vortex. “And I thought you might miss him too.” Thorin could only gape. Bilbo’s face fell. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’ve never made a grand gesture before. I’ve never needed to. I just thought...maybe this is too symbolic?” he trailed off, an adorable look of worry on his face. 

Thorin shook his head and looked Bilbo in the eye. “Grand gesture?” he asked.

Bilbo _blushed_.

“Sort of, ah, symbolic, um, of the fences coming down between us?” he questioned. “I, uh, wanted you to know that I’ve forgiven you.” he looked down and away, and Thorin’s heart clutched. He took another step towards Bilbo, cautious hope beginning to fill him. Bilbo looked up again. “We should talk,” he said, seriously, then turned and walked into the house. Thorin followed him and both men sat at the kitchen table. Bilbo nudged over a mug of coffee. “So,” he began, but Thorin interrupted.

“You’ve forgiven me?”

“Yes. I can’t say I entirely understand everything, and some of it still makes me a little uncomfortable, but I do forgive you. And all of our late night conversations have shown me a different side of you - and of me, too, for that. I…” he blushed again, then seemed to visibly steel himself. “I think, Thorin, that somewhere in these arse-about-face, screwed up interactions of ours I’ve...I’ve fallen for you.” He met Thorin’s wide-eyed gaze steadily, just his blush betraying his nervousness.

Thorin sat in stunned silence. He’d wanted this for _months_ , had qute literally dreamed of this moment,and now it was here, all he could so was goggle at Bilbo with his mouth open. Every single ounce of charm, all his social and political people skills had deserted him on a wave of shocked, ecstatic joy. He felt a grin slowly spreading across his face, and closed his mouth to swallow down a lump of emotion. “...really?” was all he could manage.

Bilbo nodded and got off his stool to walk around to where Thorin sat. He put one hand on top of Thorin’s. “Yes, really. What you did, how you apologised took real courage, Thorin. And your honesty since has been brave, too. I love the man you’ve become, I love your new openness, your integrity, I...I just love _you_ , really.” 

“Uh, well…” Thorin prayed desperately for a little of his old cockiness to return, but to no avail. “I...I love you too, Bilbo, I have from the start. It’s just a healthier kind of love, now.”

“May I kiss you?” Bilbo asked. Thorin nodded.

This time when they kissed, both of them knew it was coming. Both men went into it (quite literally) with their eyes open. When Bilbo’s mouth touched his, Thorin inhaled sharply. This felt so different to the stolen kiss, all those months ago. Thorin softened, curling his body around Bilbo’s and opening his mouth to deepen the embrace. Bilbo gently licked at Thorin’s lower lip and bit down on his lower lip. Thorin grinned, his lip still held between Bilbo’s teeth, and pulled back, Bilbo releasing his lip before it became truly painful. Thorin looked into Bilbo’s eyes. “You were right,” he laughed, reaching up a hand to tangle it in Bilbo’s hair. Bilbo looked confused.

“Consent really _is_ sexy!” chuckled Thorin. “May I?” Bilbo smiled.

“Yes,” and they met for another, longer, deeper kiss. When this kiss ended they just looked at each other, caught up in the glow of love given and returned, or a new beginning, of hope. 

It was _quite_ the most romantic moment of Thorin’s life.

Until Bofur passed gas loudly and rolled over to display his attributes to all and sundry. Both men laughed, and Bilbo pressed an affectionate kiss to thorin’s forehead. “I’ve got to get dressed for work,” he said. “Wanna help me?” He winked. Thorin was up off his stool like a shot. “ _Yes_!” he agreed, then towed Bilbo out of the kitchen, both of them laughing.

As the continued sound of laughter, plus some groans, and the odd gasp filtered down to the kitchen, Bofur rolled his doggy eyes and sighed. _Finally!_ Honestly, humans were strange creatures. He stretched, farted once more for emphasis, and settled into a long, happy sleep.

The end.

__


End file.
